Adventures in being dead
by beechee
Summary: Otherwise known as the many times Jim Moriarty has played dead, and the one time he didn't. Basically just a collection of ficlets leading through to the Fall.
1. Or, pretending to be dead

There are times when James Moriarty enjoys playing at being dead. Sebastian will come home to a dark flat to find him curled into a ball, _precisely_ placed just out of sight from the door, after administering a drug that renders his heart rate almost imperceptible. He lays there, doesn't respond to any stimulus until he grows bored with this stage.

The first time this happens, his precious little trained killer cusses, drops his weapons, and is checking his pulse in seconds, then demanding to know what's going on. He keeps it up for two or three minutes before he gives in to the impulse to giggle. The first time just so happens to be the second day that Sebbie is in his employ, and not entirely aware of what the _rules_ are, so his giggling is rewarded with a slap in the face, and in seconds Jim is off the floor snarling, pausing only long enough to calculate where he could stab the other without causing _too _much permanent damage.

Moran yells in shock, balls his bleeding hand into a fist, and tries to bury it in Jim's stomach. He sucks in his stomach, taking only the barest edge of the punch and returns it with two fingers jabbing the bundle of nerves that will paralyze the arm. He follows up with quick stiff-fingered jabs to the other's occipital muscles, driving his fingers up almost under the skull, then knees him in the groin, stepping back to allow Seb to crumple to the ground without touching him.

He waits a moment, then crouches and whispers "Not. The. _Face_." Before pivoting and walking off, giggling.


	2. Or, close to it, anyways

The second time it happens he actually _has_ been poisoned- not very effectively, but enough that he's shaking and coughing up blood, eyes rolling a bit in their sockets. [He allowed the attempt, obviously. What sort of criminal mastermind _wouldn't know_ when one of his own subordinates was looking for a leg up?] He's chosen to collapse in the kitchen this time, and he hears Sebbie arrive long before he actually sees the man: he goes to the washroom, changes out of his [presumably] bloodstained clothes, and searches the rest of the flat for him. When he finally enters the kitchen, Jim heaves himself over with great effort and does his best to focus blurry eyes on the sniper, waving and giggling before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

Seb just stares at him for a moment, and he wonders idly if it's his time to die for a few moments, before the sniper gives a resigned sigh and bends down, hefting him up with hands under each of his arms. He's carried without ceremony to the bathroom, then dropped next to the toilet and ordered [Oh how _fantastic_ he hadn't thought Seb would actually _order_ him] to throw up whatever he'd eaten.

He grins through teeth that are by now coated with blood, and croaks out "Make me." Seb's face wrinkles with disgust, but he grabs a toothbrush and jams it down Jim's throat, and he's still giggling because by now his gag reflex is almost completely _destroyed _and he's going to have to try harder than that, but then suddenly he's vomiting so maybe not, Jim can't really gage his bodily functions right now, everything is blurred by the toxins in his systems.

Seb drops a cloth next to him on the floor, than leaves him to his own devices, and anyone else would have missed the mite of concern that he had displayed, but not Jim, oh no, never Jim, and he's laughing on the floor, rag cool against his forehead, mouth still tasting of his own bile, tremors shaking his body, because this is shaping up to be _great_ fun.


	3. Or, getting more elaborate

It's a month before his next stunt, this one being one of the more elaborate schemes he's concocted: he blames it on the fact that he's been left to his own devices for five hours with absolutely _nothing_ to do. He spends about half an hour figuring out what the spray would look like if he shot himself, then paints it out with the blood he'd had in the fridge for who knows who long, who _cares_ the point is he uses it now and then he rearranges the furniture so that he's hidden where he lays, and then douses himself liberally with the blood, pops a pill, and closes his eyes, feeling his breathing relax, fighting off a manic grin.

He entertains himself by counting seconds and writing a sonata: he's timed this well, it's only 1908 seconds before Seb comes in the door, slinging his coat over the armchair carelessly. Jim keeps his eyes carefully blank, grinning a Cheshire grin on the inside. He notes the exact moment when Seb sees the blood, because the hunter freezes, going completely silent and reaching for his weapon. Seb crosses the room in a few smooth strides, looks down, cusses and checks for a pulse. Jim fights off the impulse to tell him he's being _boring_, waiting instead in favour of seeing what the other's next move will be.

Seb stands up, walks away, and turns on the kettle, leaving Jim laying on the floor for a few moments, then comes back, squats next to his head, and says "I put on peppermint tea, but I'm _not_ bringing it over here." Jim stays still for a few moments, waiting until Seb is about to stand back up, then his arm shoots up and catches his tie, yanking him back down to eye level. "If I want my tea here, you'll _bring_ it here." He lets the tie go, then closes his eyes, listening with satisfaction while Seb makes tea and sets a cup down next to his head, before slamming the door on his way out.

_Oh, he's learning already_. Jim grins to himself, sitting up to take a sip of his tea and spitting it out just as quickly- vinegar. Oh, Seb was going to _pay_ for that one. He hears a ghost of a laugh through the stairwell, and cracks his knuckles, mind ticking over a plan already.


End file.
